It’s the feeling of a yellow sofa,
A blue jumper in winter,
The barley, high in a summer field.
It’s the feeling of eating omelettes
Or strawberries, or chocolate
And listening to your beautiful voice as you sing in that tiny kitchen making tea
But didn’t know I was listening.
It’s the feeling of pub gardens,
Smoking fires and bears,
Wine that I drink whilst I drink you up and become giddy.
It is the feeling of dreams,
The ones I tell you
But more-so the ones I keep secret.
It is the feeling of waking up hoping to hear from you…
Or waking up knowing I’ll see you
And touch you.
It’s the feeling of poetry,
Icarus and his wings –
And other stuff and things…
It’s the feeling of you.
The feeling of something so great,